


Purple is not a gay colour

by aneres (maradidepaig)



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Phil Coulson, Circus Performer Clint Barton, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Gay Panic, Gay Pride, Homophobia, Hurt Clint Barton, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Poor Clint Barton, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24439708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maradidepaig/pseuds/aneres
Summary: Clint loved purple. It made him feel special, different. But he grew up being told that it was disgusting to like who he likes, what he likes. So he stopped believing in himself or loving who he is; until Phil appeared in his life in a very pretty purple tie, looking simply breath-taking, and turned Clint's world upside down, no, right side up again. Phil made sure Clint knew he was the most unique person in the world.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 74





	Purple is not a gay colour

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this having in mind that everyone is precious and special in our own ways. It is absurd to define a three-dimensional person with a label, based on their sexuality, or even as ridiculous as a favorite colour. Unfortunately, it is exactly what is happening in society today. Plenty of people I know are ashamed and afraid of who they are, because they are told that being born this way is a sin. I am saddened by these numerous stories. I want to help in some ways, to call for equal rights to be loved, and confidence to love ourselves. It's not just about sexuality, your race, looks, body, everything. I am a nobody, trying to make a tiny ripple in our incredibly frustrating society with a light, sweet story. 
> 
> If you are in any way unhappy with yourself, or are told that you are not good just for being yourself, let me tell you as a friend: never, ever give up on yourself. You are beautiful and one-of-a-kind. 
> 
> The internet is truly an amazing place. I hope it is a safe and supportive place for you, right now, to be happy with your life, and carry on each day with charisma and charm.

Clint almost only wears black Or grey. Those are the colours that make him feel powerful, respectable and in control. He dislikes colours in general, because they give away too much of his personality and thoughts to anyone passing by. Like, he doesn’t want to wear yellow and any stranger would come to the conclusion that he is funny and optimistic. Or purple… It does not mean that he is…

Whatever.

Black is the safest bet. Nobody sees or thinks of anything from black. Clint prefers that. He’s a vendetta, a shadow. Please don’t try to understand me, you can’t.

* * *

Clint knocked on Coulson’s door. “You called for me, sir?”

“Yes. I want to know when you can give me the mission report from last time. Fury’s asking for it.” Phil said, not looking up from what he was busily writing. “Oh, that.” Clint smiled awkwardly. “That, uh… yeah, the report. Next… next week?”

“You are supposed to finish it last week, Barton. Because I am such a good boss, I’ll give you two hours.” Phil finally looked up, “Three pm, today, on my desk.”

Clint saw the tiniest hint of a smirk on Phil’s upper lip. The little creases at the sides, if he looked very carefully. The bloody bastard. Clint would actually scorn, if his attention was not totally drawn to something else.

Phil wore a dark purple tie, with small navy embroidered pattern on it. It looked striking alongside his neat black suit jacket and spotless white shirt. When Phil looked up, his Adam’s apple throbbed a little, his clean, smooth jawline sharp against the tie. Clint almost couldn’t breathe.

Clint stood there, gaze frozen on Phil for a moment. Phil just waited, slightly confused. It might be two seconds or less, but it felt like an eternity for Clint. Using all the courage in his whole life, Clint muttered, “Nice tie, sir.”, and quickly glanced away, feeling his ears and cheeks all flushed and hot. Clint’s outstretched hand was on the door handle, his calf muscles tensed and ready to run away as soon as he stepped out of the doorframe. Please, God, I need to leave. I cannot…

“Hey,” Phil spoke. “Clint,” 

Clint felt his insides burning and freezing at the same time. How is that even biologically possible? He stopped dead, dreading.

“Three pm, remember.” Phil tapped his desk twice. “Thanks, by the way.” He added, shifting the position of his tie very slightly. Clint could swear Phil deliberately swallowed so that his Adam’s apple throbbed ever so slightly. But that might just be wishful thinking.

Clint nodded messily, then immediately scurried off.

Clint sprinted down the corridor and the stairs, not really caring where he’s headed. He just needed to get away from Coulson, bloody hell. He needed to think.

Not until he had reached the shooting range did he stop. As expected, he was alone. Good. He wanted to calm down.

WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING, CLINT FRANCIS BARTON? NICE FREAKIN’ TIE? WHERE THE HECK DID THAT COME FROM? HE IS YOUR BOSS, DAMMIT! AND YOU BLUSHED, FOR THE LOVE OF…! HE MUST’VE SEEN THAT, SEEN YOU ALL RED LIKE A TWELVE-YEAR-OLD GIRL! WHAT THE HELL! WHAT! THE! HELL!

Okay. Sorry. That was not calm at all. Clint took a few breaths. He was just complimenting Phil’s tie. It was a polite conversation, like talking about the weather. Yeah? It was totally normal. As for the blushing, Clint decided not to think about that, and pretend it never happened. Phil probably wouldn’t notice, anyway.

Clint’s mind stopped racing, but then his thoughts went to a distant memory. It was queer how things that happened so long ago could still hurt.

He was almost jealous at Phil, for wearing purple so confidently. Like it was nothing. Like it was just a very beautiful colour that he liked. Like it was that simple, no strings attached. Clint scoffed at himself. It was just stupid purple, of course normal people can wear it normally. It’s only himself that was such a complete coward and an idiot too.

He guessed that it wasn’t the actual pain of the beating that hurt so badly. His father did that all the time, over an answer relied not quickly enough, or sometimes just being there when his father was in a bad mood. A purple t-shirt that Clint picked up on the street would not be the most ridiculous reason for a beating; and in fact, that time Clint just had a broken nose, and a few glass shards in his arm. He had had much worse from his old man. So no, he could not care less about the beating and the blood.

It wasn’t really about his dad not liking what Clint did, or said, or wore either. He was so used to it he could not care less about what his father thought. What was it that bothered Clint so much, from a purple t-shirt that made him “gay and disgusting”?

It was being told that, something Clint liked, bonded with at first sight, felt represented and connected to, was a bad thing that did not deserve to exist. It was the implication that Clint was born wrong somewhere, that made him like things that were wrong and disgusting. The shirt was lying by a bin that Clint passed by. He was poor and well, having new clothes was always a good idea. He picked it up, it was a simple violet-purple cotton shirt. A little wrinkled and mouldy, but still pretty decent, in Clint’s eyes. And he immediately loved the colour. It just spoke to him. The colour was calm, but not shallow; mysterious, but not evil; almost, royal, in some ways. Clint liked it so much he wore it over his ragged white tank top, and walked back home cheerfully.

The first thing his dad said when he saw Clint was, “What is the motherf—king hideous thing! You are revolting. What are you, a fag? You…” Then he smashed the bottle in his hand that he was just drinking from, right into Clint’s face. A thin trail of blood ran down his cheeks, and stained the shirt.

Clint never wore the shirt again. The blood was still moist and warm on it when he threw it into the river. 

The incident gave Clint a not very good memory of the colour purple. He began to feel that there was something, deep inside him, that was wrong and unwanted. When he put on the shirt, he felt amazing, like he’s telling the world that his style is special, he is calling for attention, he is showing off his uniqueness as a person. That he is- one of a kind. That was how wearing purple made him feel.

But his dad’s reaction made Clint believe that this part of himself was gross. He should not be proud of being different, he should not think of himself as special. And it was worse to want to show it to the world. He should hide who he is, and what he likes. Be just like anyone else. Small, simple, silent.

* * *

Clint typed out the report sourly. He’s sure there was a sea of grammatical mistakes and spelling errors, but he couldn’t care less. Phil would deal with those. At three pm sharp, he knocked on Phil’s office door again. He was both nervous seeing Phil after all the awkwardness just now, but also a little excited to look at Phil in that very nice tie again.

An agent walked by, saw Clint and said, “Oh, Coulson was called away by Fury just now. You can just go in and put that on his desk.”

Clint was kind of disappointed, but then he laughed at himself. That was incredibly stupid. You’ll see him tomorrow, anyway. (but he would be wearing a different tie then!) (Oh come on…)

When he saw Phil the next morning, Clint tried his best to pretend that nothing happened. “Shut it, you moron.” He said to himself. “NOTHING HAPPENED! Phil must’ve forgotten about it entirely. You’re not that important, y’know.”

Clint was early on the shooting range, practising, and also clearing his mind. Not after ten minutes of tranquillity, his anxiety and panic disorder waltzed to him in the form of a particular man in a tailored suit.

“Hello, Agent Barton. You’re early.” Phil said. Clint glanced at him, and saw Phil sporting a pretty stylish tie. It was olive green and blue, silk and with paisley patterns. The exclamation came out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Wow, boss. Aren’t you pretty.” Clint spurted out, and received a shy smile in return. “What’s the occasion?”

Phil laughed and shook his head. “None. Just felt particularly extra this morning.”

Clint looked away, feeling butterflies in his stomach. The feeling was so weird it scared him. Why was Phil making him blush and quicken his heartbeat? He picked up his bow and made a few more shots. His hand was trembling and his mind was racing… Clint almost thought he’d miss, but all arrows hit the bull’s eye swift and square.

Phil just casually leaned against a wall and watched him sheepishly.

The two carried on this strange chemistry for quite a while; Clint shooting, Phil watching. Neither talked. They didn’t want to ruin the mood.

At last, Phil spoke.

“Clint. There’s a new mission. I want to show you the files and brief you about it at my office. That’s why I came to find you just now, I forgot all about it, apparently.”

“Entranced by my super amazing skills?”

Phil tsked and rolled his eyes. Then he strode away without checking if Clint was following.

Where else would Clint be? He could not draw his eyes, or his mind from this man.

* * *

The week passed by, uneventfully. Clint had some work and training to do, Phil was, as usual, extremely busy with top secret things. But every morning they would meet at the range, Clint would practise and Phil would watch. Everything was peaceful and quiet.

Except for Phil’s ties. Those were only getting louder and louder each day. He had a grey and orange one one day, and a silver blue the other. Clint had never seen Phil wearing a different tie than his usual black and grey ones, but now he was getting so dramatic.

Those were special and interesting, Clint thought. Definitely not cheap. He’d compliment Phil about them every morning, but Clint still liked the purple one, on the first day, the most.

He always liked purple, and that particular tie was detailed but also not overly loud. Besides, Phil’s jaw and throat looked best in it.

Clint didn’t see Phil at all in the weekend. He was in a classified task group, doing superspy-y stuff, something that a low level agent like Clint was not qualified to know. To be honest, Clint started missing the man a little, in the mornings when he was practising alone. It was totally absurd.

On Monday, Phil Coulson swooshed back into Clint’s mornings like the drama queen he was. He was already waiting, earlier than usual, on the range. Clint noticed him wearing the purple tie again, and this time a little something more: a matching purple handkerchief just slightly peaking from his suit pocket.

Clint could faint. He really could.

And Phil knew, he knew exactly how he was making Clint feeling light-headed and tingly. The bastard smirked ever so subtly, cocking his head to the side.

“I know. You like purple, don’t you, Clint?” He said, replacing the smirk with a real smile.

Clint needed a moment before he could speak without his voice cracking. “Uh… long story. But you look amazing, boss. I like you like this.”

“How can a yes-or-no question about a colour you like be a long story? And how come you never wear anything else, other than this boring black bad-ass suit?” Phil was unrelenting.

Clint inhaled deeply. He wasn’t ready for this conversation. But Phil just waited for him to talk.

“You have a minute, Phil? ‘Cause I have a lot to share.”

“I have all the time in the world for you.”

* * *

“Purple is a gay colour, that’s what I’ve been told since I was a kid. I liked it, but it was wrong. I was wrong to be who I wanted to be, to look how I wanted to look. It was unacceptable, to want to look different, to even want to be looked at. I was told to be normal, to dress normal. Black, grey, a little bit of brown. Anything that camouflages me and my personality.

You know I was in the circus for most of my teenage years, but I didn’t like talking about it.

The circus was where I met some of my best family and friends. I learnt so much there, saw all the bright and the dirty in the big, big world. In many ways, the place made me who I am today, gave me lots of personality; but time and time again, it took away some parts of myself as well. To live in those places, the last thing you needed was to stand out, right?

Jacques, the swordsman, who took me and my brother in when we were running from our dad, was almost like my father. When I was seventeen or something, been working for the circus for two years, Jacques took me to the market to buy me a new hat. He said, “Dress good, look cool, young man. The best sharpshooter in town needs to look like a gentleman.”

We were both nearly penniless, but he managed to save some coins because he knew I wanted a hat. I saw a dark purple fedora hat, and immediately loved it. It was in the lady’s section, but I was a kid, I didn’t notice that it was a problem. Jacque didn’t point it out either. I said I liked it, and he bought it without thinking. It wasn’t cheap. It was literally Jacques’ life savings.

I put it on my head and returned to the camp. I was so proud. Nobody at the circus particularly cared, but I would wear it on the streets every day. Until one day, some kids, older and bigger than me, snatched it off my head and spit in my face. “You are a freak, aren’t you? Oh you’re from the circus. You must be one of their f—king clowns, the idiots in the freakshow.” They threw it on the ground and stepped on it. They punched me and kicked me.

Yeah, I was still a scrawny boney kid back then. I couldn’t fight back.

They called me names, the usual stuff. Then they left. My hat was all torn and ragged, on the ground.

So I knew I was different, and being different is bad. It makes people hit you and insult you. And I knew that part of me had to disappear, if I was to survive. Mute myself.

I don’t know if I am gay. Never gave it much thought. I just learnt the hard lesson that what I love, may not be acceptable, even for somebody who has no business with my life whatsoever. People want to stop me from doing what I like, or being who I am, even though I do not disturb them in any way.

That’s just how life is. That’s life, in the cruel part of the town where I grew up.”

* * *

Clint almost forgot that Phil was there. He was so deep in memory that he jumped when Phil put his arm on Clint’s shoulders, and pulled him close.

“Purple is not a gay colour. It’s a beautiful colour, and it suits you. It suits your smile. It would be nice if you do that more. You can wear purple all you like, it doesn’t mean anything about you. You are different, you are special. I know that, and I love that about you. People told you it was wrong to be yourself, but _they_ are wrong. Don’t hide your shine because people will be jealous. Be proud of how bright you are shining, because you are.”

Neither of them talked. They stayed like that, Phil holding Clint, for what seems like forever.

The sky was getting brighter, and it was time they got back to work. So Clint leaned back, and said to Phil, “You look gorgeous, in this pretty tie and fancy suit.”

“So do you, Clint, whatever you wear.”

* * *

Clint headed to the gym for his daily training, while Phil went to his office.

At noon, Clint went back to his bunker to get some stuff, and saw a package on his bed. He opened it and found a lilac scarf. There was also a small card which said, “I wear purple, that doesn’t mean I am attracted to men, or women, or anything at all. It just means I am attracted to you, and would wear whatever you find me hot in. I also hope you would love yourself for who you are, because you are beautiful in my eyes. Haven't had the privilege of seeing it for myself, but I know you'd look lovely in purple. Especially when you smile. Love, Phil.”

Clint smiled. He smiled so hard there were tears in his eyes. He quickly wrapped the scarf around his neck, feeling the warmth from his head all the way down to his chest. Then he ran to Phil’s office, just catching him as he was locking his door.

“Going for lunch, sir?” He asked, still panting. “Care if I join you?”

“Not at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you like the story, please read the notes at the beginning if you haven't. That's a more important message I want to share.  
> Leave a comment or a kudos if you like my work. I would be thrilled to know what you think!


End file.
